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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590081">Trick Photography</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/myracingthoughts/pseuds/myracingthoughts'>myracingthoughts</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Darcy Lewis Bingo 2020 [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Photographer, F/M, First Meetings, Weddings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:21:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590081</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/myracingthoughts/pseuds/myracingthoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint “Hawkeye” Barton was an award-winning photographer who <i>never</i> shot weddings. It was a rule and everything. In fact, the only thing he hated more than weddings was wedding politics. </p><p>So, of course, in walks Darcy Lewis, wedding coordinator extraordinaire... and the rest? Well, the rest was kind of embarrassing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Darcy Lewis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Darcy Lewis Bingo 2020 [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927495</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Darcy Lewis Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was written for Darcy Lewis Bingo and checks off box C2 - Darcy x Clint.</p><p>This has been sitting untouched in my drafts for <i>way</i> too long. Thank you to @treaddelicately for letting me complain my way through the rest of the plot. Thank goodness you did, or else this would have stayed a one-shot instead.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div>It didn’t take a lot to be a good shot.<p>Not like Clint Barton saw it. All it took was a few well-crafted pieces of glass, a hunk of plastic, and two somewhat steady hands. Now they had all those electronics in the way —the screens and touchpads and sensors— but really, when you broke it down, that was all you needed. </p><p>Oh, and an <i>eye</i> for it, or whatever pretentious art school bullshit they were selling these days. </p><p>He was an honest guy, some might even say even brash or brutish, but he wasn’t about to lie to anyone, not even potential clients. Photography was simple math: the golden mean, the ratio of darks to lights, the logistics of focus and cropping. It was negotiation and coaxing, hiding and buying time. </p><p>But mostly it was odds.</p><p>And while Clint was never good at math on paper, he was something else behind the camera. And even better at odds.</p><p>So he did the whole schtick. Started with a local news bureau in his teens, he wound up documenting the grunge scene of the ’90s —and wouldn’t even realize how impactful it was until almost a decade later. It was all uphill from there, getting picked up for war zone coverage after 9/11 out of a sense of duty to his country. And then he just kept going.</p><p>Eyes up, camera on, through tear gas and arrests, pepper spray and broken equipment. There was nothing that would get in the way of him and the shot he sought out. After all, that’s how he got the title: the award-winning photographer and photojournalist Clint ‘Hawkeye’ Barton.</p><p>But the aughts were long gone.</p><p>Work was slow, warzones were more dangerous for media than ever, and journalism was criminally underfunded, with most of his long-time publications slashing rates or going belly-up within the last ten years. Galleries and exhibits were few and far between, and who really <i>wanted</i> to teach college?</p><p>Sure, he’d done the odd contract job, a little editorial, some personal projects, but he didn’t do weddings. In fact, he <i>never</i> did weddings. It was a fundamental rule and everything, except when it came to his own. </p><p>With the woman he ended up divorcing two years ago.</p><p>That may or may not have had something to do with his rule.</p><p>But still, here Clint was. A hot, sticky July morning in a hotel room overlooking Central Park. Sure, he lived not far from the city, but you bet his ass he was sucking every dime out of this miserable and financially-required gig. Especially when room service was covered in his contract </p><p>And the Belgian waffles were really good.</p><p>He slid on his best charcoal suit (no holes, even) and dusted off the lapels, sizing himself up in the mirror. Even Clint would tell you he looked tired; somewhere along the line, it had become his signature, and he just stopped questioning it. Shit caught up with everyone in the end.</p><p>With a sigh and a pat-down of his back pocket for the room key, he grabbed his gear and made his way to the bride’s suite. On some top floor, in some penthouse, today’s bride and her twelve-person bridal party (which <i>really</i> boded well for group shots) were probably drinking champagne in kimonos under the watchful eyes of some glam squad. But outside the door, there was already a line-up of vendors looking too nervous to knock.</p><p>Fuck, wedding politics. He sure as shit didn’t miss those.</p><p>“Who’s the coordinator?” Clint gruffed.</p><p>The shortest of the three tilted their head towards the door with a raise of her brows.</p><p>“That bad, huh?”</p><p>He didn’t need to see the rest of them nod to know.</p><p>Clint took a quick look down both ends of the hall (to make sure he had the right room), a good glance at each of the vendors (in case any of them decided to grow a spine and do it themselves), and a deep breath (that was all he had) before knocking on the stupid door.</p><p>“Who are—? Oh.” The girl on the other side of the door went through a few stages of grief in her assessment of him, eyes trailing up and down as realization swept across her face. “Hawkeye.”</p><p>“It’s uh, Clint. You’re not the coordinator, are you?”</p><p>“No, ha. Sorry! I’m Wanda, the make-up artist. Come on in, and feel free to set your gear down in the spare bedroom down there,” she pointed towards a door near the entrance. </p><p>Peeling himself out of the tangle of straps and latches, he set his kits down onto the bed and started unzipping all the usual suspects. It wasn’t long before his trusty Leica M3 and Nikon F were tethered to his body, ready to get the show on the road.</p><p>He peeked out of the doorway, hoping he hadn’t missed a call or frantic text from any of the wedding team. But, cell phone and coast clear, he headed towards the quiet chatter of voices. They kept their voices down, but Clint was an excellent lipreader —it came in handy all the times he broke his aids out in the field.</p><p>“Uh, Darcy, the photographer’s here. Clint, Hawkeye… something?”</p><p>“Clint Barton, Hawkeye Photography,” she sighed and slouched.</p><p>Darcy —for some reason, that seemed like such a fitting name for the brunette down the hall. He could only catch her from behind, but damn, was it a good view. It could have been a picture, her in six-inch heels, leaning on the doorjamb with a mimosa in hand. Dark brown hair in retro waves pulled over to one side, and head-to-toe black talking to some unseen accomplice.</p><p>Photographers talk a lot about lines, artists too, and this woman was straight out of the classics. Could’ve walked out of some sculpture as the pinnacle of beauty. </p><p>Darcy was all lines, and Clint had none worth offering her; all words were lost as he listened to her say his name aloud.</p><p>“Is he new or what?” Clint could hear Wanda ask from the next room. “Don’t think I’ve ever worked with him before.”</p><p>He was almost amused at being able to shake up the usual elites of the Upper East bridal market.</p><p>“Yeah, doesn’t usually do weddings or something. Beats me,” Darcy shrugged. “Do you think he got lost?”</p><p>“Nah, he’s just getting his tech together, I think.”</p><p>“Maybe he’s snooping,” Darcy moved to turn around to check, and Clint quickly ducked back into the hallway he came from.</p><p>“No, he had a shit ton of equipment. He’ll probably be a while.”</p><p>That seemed to set her at ease, falling back into her unedited slouch.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, he only shoots film. I get it. He’s a pretentious twenty-something douchebag who probably drinks craft beer.”</p><p>Now seemed like a good a time as any to pop out from the shadows.</p><p>“Actually, I don’t drink, and I’m no spring chicken, but I did win a Pulitzer once,” Clint chimed in, just as the brunette’s head turned to size him up. “I’m uh, Clint, by the way.”</p><p>There was a split second of worry at the fact he’d managed to completely humiliate the person standing between him and a pay-check in under twenty words. And a part of him was already chiding himself.</p><p>Clint Barton couldn’t manage to be civil for the first five minutes of a gig, apparently.</p><p>But she looked utterly unaffected; not a flicker of regret crossed her face as she stared him up and down. “Not sure I asked or cared,” she like she was reading the phonebook. “And you’re late. You were supposed to be here twelve minutes ago. Aren’t there two of you?” </p><p>Right, of course, she’d be expecting the <i>other</i> Hawkeye, Kate Bishop. Probably all there in her stupid spreadsheet or whatever.</p><p>“Uh, yeah. Kate’s with the groom this morning—” why did they think that was the best way to split the work again? “—so it’s just me for now.”</p><p>Wait, wasn’t <i>she</i> in the wrong here? Unless he missed something, she just insulted him. How was she making <i>him</i> feel like the asshole?</p><p>Darcy looked at him for some kind of explanation for the lateness, but Clint was too dumbstruck to come up with any excuse worth spitting out. Her eyes turned back to her tablet and shifted some screens around. </p><p>It was clear as day this was not her first rodeo, and she didn’t have sympathy for the newbie.</p><p>“Well, shoes off. No drinks in the bedroom because the dress is in there, and Wanda and the bride are ready for the ‘no make-up’ make-up shots,” she listed off in one easy breath. “Questions?”</p><p>She stared up at him with eyes as blue as the oceans themselves, so deep he could’ve gotten lost in them. But that perfectly applied red lipstick and the straight face weren’t giving anything up. Not for him.</p><p>With neither of them willing to back down, Clint Barton knew one thing for sure: </p><p>This was going to be a <i>fun</i> night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Tuck your chin a bit," Clint instructed, viewfinder at his eye as he angled himself away from the window. "Great, MJ. Now, look down. Wanda, can you powder under her eyes for a second? Keep your hand in the frame." </p><p>The stacked rings on Wanda's fingers made for a great contrast against the bride's white silk robe.</p><p>Just because this gig was mostly a paycheque to him didn't mean Clint would do sub-par work. He'd always look for ways to improve on the standard bridal shots, some hook or intrigue to shake things up.</p><p>After all, today was the day J. Jonah Jameson had begrudgingly chosen to have a heart —at least, publicly— calling on an old journalism buddy for a special kind of favour. A little old-world on the ambition side of things, Jameson always managed to stick his claws in whoever he deemed useful (Clint included) now or in the future. Sure, it was a little social-climber of him, but such were the Manhattan elites, and as the face of the city's most prominent news network, Jameson could afford to be a bit of a dick. </p><p>It was part of his brand, after all. </p><p>So there was no doubt in Clint's head that this favour was really for the Broadway sensation half of the pair, Miss Mary Jane Watson. But, the job came with a New York-elite-sized payment, so he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Peter and Mary Jane were about to have one of the biggest weddings in the city, and Clint was there to document it, sunrise to well after sunset. </p><p>Starting with what was affectionately called the <i>no-make-up</i> make-up shot —you know, the shots always done just before lashes and lipstick.</p><p>"Know a lot about make-up application, Barton?" Wanda teased when he let that little tidbit slip.</p><p>Clint chuckled, "Enough to make a shot list. Not enough to actually do it."</p><p>Weddings these days were always about the aesthetics, photography doubly so. There was a formula behind what most brides asked for; the engagement shoot, the ring shot, some getting ready photos, first looks, the parents… the list went on and on, and was fairly regimented. Pinterest was full of them; different people, place and colour scheme, but identical tropes. </p><p>Even so, it took a lot of planning to get every detail, every family shot, while maintaining enough flexibility to capture the unposed moments.</p><p>Clint hated checklists, he hated trends and he most certainly hated having to pose models —or in this case, brides— himself, but he needed to pay his rent, so he got Kate, a second shooter, so he could at least be two places at once.</p><p>Not that it was helping his case right now.</p><p>Case in point, sourpuss in the corner Darcy (last name Lewis), muttering to herself about how he's already five minutes overtime. She whispered a string of curse words between urgent calls to catering and getting visual confirmation from the florists because god forbid, some of the roses are red instead of burgundy. This was the part of weddings, the bullshit politics and ego games, that he hated most of all. </p><p>Wrapped up in a cute, totally his type package, which definitely wanted less than nothing to do with him.</p><p>"The next set of shots is getting dressed in the bridal suite downstairs," Clint offered, trying to calm the pacing Ms. Lewis as he flipped through the ultra-long —and very detailed— shot list on his phone. "If you need to save time, I can set up a location and meter the lighting if someone comes with me to stand-in?"</p><p>He had a few softboxes to set up for the more elaborate dress and getting ready shots with and without the bridal party. Having a stand-in made things infinitely easier to adjust without the bride having to wait around. But Darcy looked a little strangled, eyes flicking between her cell phone, tablet and the poor scruffy photographer in front of her. </p><p>After checking her schedule for the fourth time in two minutes, that familiar look of resignation crossed her face with a sigh.</p><p>“Listen, I don’t <i>want</i> to be a model. There will be no 'Paint me like one of your French girls' moments under this roof. Especially when I'm on the clock," Darcy sighed, looking around the room, then down at her clipboard, "But I have to go down there anyway and make sure the tea and scones are already in place. Will that work?"</p><p>"Yes, ma'am. It'll take me all of five minutes," Clint promised over his shoulder, as he dashed to the bedroom to grab the rest of his gear. </p><p>A metric fuckton of cross-body bags and carrying cases later, Clint was trudging towards the elevator with Darcy in silence. The first hint something was wrong were the three too-short phone calls between the elevator bay and the lobby: tone clipped and edgy, one-word answers only. Clint avoided eye contact and kept his distance in the elevator, feeling like he was intruding on her Very Bad Day.</p><p>And then there was the sigh.</p><p>He looked over to find her nibbling on her lower lip, eyes bugged out and staring at her phone in incredulous disbelief. </p><p>"Everything alright?"</p><p>"Peachy."</p><p>He wasn't about to push that, not when she was technically doing him a favour.</p><p>On any other day, he would have been thrilled to get Darcy in front of a camera, capture those piercing blue eyes in <i>just</i> the right light, and maybe even find a smile. But from the look on her face after a dozen angry orders and phone calls, she wasn't going to be an easy client. </p><p>Especially not after their less-than-graceful introduction.</p><p>They made their way to the hotel's main floor, where the classic silk and velvet bridal suite sat: all crown moulding, french doors and lace curtains. There was already a rack of clothing there beside the steamer —a must-have on sets— kimonos and bridesmaid dresses alike hung creaseless.</p><p>All <i>twelve</i> of them. </p><p>Fuck, what did he get himself into? This was going to be like herding cats.</p><p>Darcy was glued to her phone as he set up the lighting rig, having already scouted the corner he'd be shooting in last night before he hit the hotel bar. He was OK with that, he worked better alone, and it looked like she was doing at least three jobs simultaneously.</p><p>"For fuck's sake," Darcy muttered to herself, thumbs frantically typing away on her phone screen.</p><p>"Let me guess," Clint started. "The florist?"</p><p>It was the only vendor he hadn't seen hide or hair of all morning, and while they could set up closer to the ceremony, typically, they'd be in by now.</p><p>"How did you…?"</p><p>“I said I never <i>shot</i> weddings. I didn't say I never attended them," Clint said with a smile. A lot of them, in fact. At this point, he was one of the only people in his social bubble without a ring on his finger. "Anyway, I'm all set up if you want to step over here?"</p><p>For someone who'd easily taken him down a notch just an hour before, Darcy looked nervous. Stepping between the lightboxes, she stood in front of the textured wallpaper with a pinched expression and an unsure smile. </p><p>Looks like he'd have to practice his negotiation skills a little early today.</p><p>Realizing she was in head-to-toe black, Clint looked around for something to bring the right colour to the frame. He didn't want to mess up his metering.</p><p>"Here," he tossed a white fur stole from the jam-packed rolling rack towards her. "Wear this."</p><p>Darcy's eyes flashed between shock and horror, but it was better than whatever self-conscious bullshit she'd had on them earlier. This, at least, was a little closer to the spitfire from upstairs.</p><p>"This," her voice practically dripped venom, "is <i>vintage</i> and worth more than all of my worldly possessions combined. What the fuck, Barton? You can't just throw that."</p><p>"You caught it," Clint defended with a shrug. "And you haven't let it go yet, so."</p><p>Clutching it a little closer to her chest, she looked torn, "Just a few minutes?"</p><p>Clint huffed a laugh, seeing an inkling of mischief in her, the gentle way she held the fur over her shoulders like she was trying it on for size. Darcy Lewis would have looked amazing in a paper bag, but it was nice to see her in something other than the scowl she'd been sporting all day.</p><p>"Just to get the settings right, since the bride will be wearing all white," Clint replied, trying to make it sound all business.</p><p>"Ivory, actually," Darcy said automatically but resumed tracing her fingers back and forth along the fur. </p><p>He reached over to silently adjust the stole to cover her dress, skimming the bare skin on her arm. Something flashed across her face —indignation if he had to blindly guess— but it was too quick for him to catch.</p><p>Darcy cleared her throat, "So, a Pulitzer. I can say I've been photographed by a Pulitzer-winning photographer?"</p><p>The shy grin on her face revealed a glitter in her deep blue eyes that hadn't been there earlier. They were almost too big for her face, but somehow they made her more beautiful. Clint traced the lines with his eyes in-camera, drifting over the pouty red-stained lips and the milky skin.</p><p>He coughed a laugh, swiping the knobs on his camera, "Yeah, this is little more posed than the Arab Spring shots that got me that. But it pays the bills."</p><p>For a second, he wondered if she even knew what the Arab Spring was, but Darcy seemed to sober up a little at that, "<i>Oh.</i>”</p><p>And he left it at that, quietly adjusting the aperture until it read clear, "Alright. You're good. I think I was even a whole minute early."</p><p>Darcy nodded, checking the time and swiping through a few reminders on her phone, "Um, I'm going to bring them down. Need anything else?"</p><p>She was already re-hanging the stole, giving it a longing look before her eyes snapped back to his.</p><p>"Nope. Have everything I need," Clint replied.</p><p>With a few minutes to spare, he figured he'd check in on the other Hawkeye —grooms and groomsmen had a reputation in the wedding industry, and based on personal experience, they almost always lived up to it.</p><p><b>Clint:</b> <i>How are the boys? They even out of bed yet?</i></p><p><b>Katie Kate</b>: <i>nope, the groom’s aunt is trying to coax him out of his room.</i></p><p>Yep, sounded like a typical wedding experience. Feeling nosey, Clint pressed on.</p><p><b>Clint:</b> <i>Cocaine and strippers?</i></p><p>After all, this could make for a good anecdote. And if he was going to put himself through the ordeal of shooting a full-blown wedding, he was going to come out of this with at least one good story.</p><p>One for the boys at the bar.</p><p><b>Katie Kate</b>: <i>spent the whole night in the bathroom. nerves.</i></p><p>"Poor bastard," Clint mumbled to himself out loud.</p><p>"Should I even ask?" Darcy called from the door, crossing the room in two quick strides. Her voice was a few notches lower in the next breath, "The groom, right?"</p><p>It was his turn to gape at her, "How did you—?"</p><p>"Despite what you might think, I'm good with people. Reading people, at least. Had him pegged since the first consultation," Darcy admitted with a shrug. "And honestly, it's pretty normal. It's the couples without a nervous Nelly that are the ones <i>I'm</i> worried about."</p><p>He found himself thinking back to his own wedding, how neither of them had been nervous. At the time, he assumed it was because he was blending business and pleasure.</p><p>These days, he knew better. </p><p>He and Bobbi'd been doomed from the start. There were a million signs he blew past like they were on some freeway towards domesticity —which, in itself, should have been a red flag. </p><p>"The bride en route?" Clint asked, desperate to shove aside thoughts of his previous life.</p><p>As if to answer his question, Mary Jane and that fiery red mane walked in with a megawatt smile. Her phone was pointed at the ceiling, front-facing camera live-streaming to her Instagram audience as she narrated, offering a sweeping look at the bridal suite. Clint quickly ducked out of the way, noticing Darcy strategically placing her clipboard in front of her face.</p><p>"Should have negotiated a licensing fee for my social media presence," Clint joked with a snort, MJ too distracted with her video upload to notice the comment.</p><p>"You going to go on a 'kids these days' rant next? C'mon, you barely look a day over 70," Darcy teased under her breath.</p><p>"Nah, that's the new world order," Clint sighed, a little resigned to his fate. "And what I'll inevitably get replaced by one day. If I haven't been already."</p><p>A gaggle of giggles flooded the room as what Clint assumed was the bridal party strolled in, half of them already wearing sunglasses to cover this morning's hangover. Darcy was silently doing a headcount, referencing her clipboard, and Clint thought that might have been it. It was showtime, after all.</p><p>"Well, it's not the tech that makes it memorable. It's the artist," Darcy murmured from the side of her mouth, not looking up from her notes. “Even <i>I</i> know that.”</p><p>She didn't give him a chance to respond, quickly returning to coordinator mode to herd the bridal party into their positions and outfits. He may have had to not-so-safely balance himself on a table (that probably shouldn't have held his weight) to get a group shot, but even wedding photography had its own dangers, he supposed.</p><p>Darcy got through Clint's shot-list like a well-oiled machine, wrangling and prepping the party into position while Clint tried to get the right angles and expressions. She had this authority about her that dwarfed her stature, quickly being able to take command of a room and get what she needed out of someone. And even though she was in charge of thirty plus vendors for the day, the only giveaway to her stress was her curt tone and no bullshit expression.</p><p>It was kind of hot if he thought about it too long, and it was hard to look away. </p><p>He'd be lying if he said she wasn't the focus of a few of his 'behind-the-scenes' shots, but as far as he was concerned, Darcy Lewis was made to be in front of the camera, not behind the scenes. Even if she didn't see it herself.</p><p>The next time Clint had a chance to breathe, it was only enough time to shove a croissant in his mouth before bounding out the door to document the parents' first looks with the bride. Clint didn't get to see much of Darcy throughout the day between the ceremony and the posed portraits. But even on their mandated one-hour break before the ceremony, Clint found himself checking the time against her colour-coded schedule more enough to draw the attention of his partner, Kate.</p><p>"You really fucked up with the keeper of the paycheck, didn't you, Barton?" she teased. "I can feel the pining from here, and it's kind of creeping me out."</p><p>Clint sighed, “I am <i>not</i> pining.”</p><p>Kate snorted, delicately wiping at the remainder of her lipstick with a napkin.</p><p>"Sure, and Mary Jane Watson isn't a fourteen to Parker's seven-point-five."</p><p>She kind of had him there, as much as Clint didn't want to admit it.</p><p>"You should just go find her, ask her out to dinner. You know, what normal people do when they're attracted to someone?"</p><p>Clint quirked a brow, "You know a lot about that, Bishop?"</p><p>"Shut up."</p><p>Abandoning his meagre plate of hors d 'oeuvres, Clint realized he'd lost track of Darcy. It took a few turns and hallways before he rounded the corner to find J. Jonah Jameson towering over Darcy on the balcony, just outside the door. He stood with clenched fists, practically raining spit in a rage, "You nearly cost me the whole goddamn deal! My associate was furious."</p><p>Shit. He'd been on that receiving end of that temper before. Too many times to put up with anymore, especially not when it was someone who didn't deserve it.</p><p>"Well, if they hadn't strolled into the ceremony twenty minutes in, I wouldn't have had them wait out in the hall."</p><p>Darcy's voice was firm, but Clint could see her shrink back into the wall, trying to keep arm's length from the man practically red with fury.</p><p>"Jameson." </p><p>Clint's tone was firm, eyes locked on (technically) his boss's. The man that was signing his cheque for the night. The one that had tipped him off to jobs in the past. Even provided references. The logical part of his brain cycled through these flashing neon warnings in an attempt to not do something stupid, but the other part was already made up. </p><p>"That's enough of that."</p><p>"Barton, stay out of it," Jameson seethed, giving Darcy a chance to shuffle out of his way towards Clint. "If you know what's good for you." </p><p>But Clint had dealt with enough bullies in his time to know how to defuse a situation like this.</p><p>"No, I don't think I will," Clint challenged, putting himself between Darcy and Jameson. "If you have a problem with Ms. Lewis's work, then I suggest you get it in writing or address her the way you would any other business associate in a public setting, Jameson."</p><p>Jameson huffed a laugh, "What do you know about business? You're just another washed-up photog without a penny to your name. No harm in staying that way, I suppose," Turning back to Darcy Jameson spat, "But <i>you</i>. Don't even deign to think you're getting a cent out of your lousy contract," Jameson spat before spinning on his heel and marching back towards the pre-dinner lounge. "Either of you."</p><p>Clint and Darcy stood in silence for a beat, until Darcy's hand landed on his shoulder.</p><p>"You didn't have to do that," Darcy said softly as he turned to meet her eyes. "But, uh, thanks."</p><p>Clint attempted a half-smile, shoving his hands into his pockets, "Sorry I cost you the job,"</p><p>She shook her head dismissively, "Nah, I did that myself. Apparently, got a little too mouthy with some latecomers who happen to be investors."</p><p>Darcy swiped two flutes of champagne from a nearby tray, handing one to Clint for a half-hearted cheers. She walked towards the railing of the balcony, overlooking Central Park in the setting sun. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she was clearly a little uncomfortable.</p><p>"So, turns out you throw a pretty decent party," Clint mused, leaning against the guardrail.</p><p>Darcy offered a humourless chuckle, taking another swig from the glass in her hand, "Yeah, that political science degree is definitely going to good use here. Makes clients blowing up at me every night all the more worth it."</p><p>Clint looked over at her, seeing the tears already welling, threatening to spill over her cheeks. She was beautiful no matter the light but wished he hadn't realized it during a work-related breakdown. It made his heart twist in all the wrong ways, hearing the shame in her voice.</p><p>"Hey, degrees don't mean shit," Clint grumbled. "Never got one, and most of the people in the room behind us probably bought theirs. You're smart, you're resourceful, and you're actually a nice person under all that ice. That's more than most of them can say."</p><p>He managed to coax a smile out of her, a little more watery than he'd intended, but he'd take it.</p><p>"Thanks," Darcy offered quietly. "Aside from you being late—"</p><p>"You're never going to let that go, are you?"</p><p>"—you're not so bad yourself, I guess." She wiped beneath her eyes, sniffing back unshed tears before downing the rest of her flute. "Anyway, I should get back in there."</p><p>"Why? It's not like either of us is getting paid."</p><p>She looked at him in surprise, like there were some dots he hadn't quite connected yet.</p><p>"Oh, the joke's on J. Jonah Jameson. He's all bark. He hired you as a very public favour to Ms. Watson, since that whole Twitter SNAFU a few months back, so your cheque will clear." </p><p>She looked a little smug at the comment, checking her make-up in the reflection of her phone screen as Clint looked on for an explanation.</p><p>"And anyway, I have a crack team of lawyers out in Hell's Kitchen that would love to explain why breaking my vendor contract isn't going to be easy," Darcy said coolly. "I'll introduce you. Yours needs a lot of work."</p><p>She was already halfway to the french doors before her comment sank in. It was his turn to gape, mouth hanging open for a few seconds before he huffed a laugh. </p><p>He couldn't miss that smile on her face when she turned around, "What? I've been an independent contractor for most of my adult life. I've learned a lot."</p><p>"Darcy."</p><p>"Yeah?" </p><p>She spun around, eyes alight and smile already on her face. Clint wished he could freeze that moment— before he realized his camera hung forgotten around his neck. He raised it to his eye to quickly take a snapshot to her indignant, "Hey!"</p><p>Clint grinned. </p><p>"Sorry, you're just something else, darlin'," his flirt was in full force, cards on the table with nothing left to lose. "Dinner sometime? Far, far away from here, maybe?"</p><p>Darcy smirked.</p><p>"Hm, I think I have your number somewhere," she shot back with a bit of a lilt.</p><p>"I promise I'll be on time," he added for effect.</p><p>"I'll believe it when I see it."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And that's the end! Thank you to all the subscribers, commenters and kudos-givers 💜</p><p>More Taserhawk coming soon!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much for reading. All comments, kudos and bookmarks are loved and cherished.</p><p>You can also find me on <a href="https://pasmonblog.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>, where I post comic book content, work updates, and behind-the-scenes commentary.</p><p>Title song credit: Photography by: The Starting Line</p></blockquote></div></div>
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